


Christening the Cottage

by Sintina



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chores, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flirting, M/M, Miraculous Roadwork, Other, Painting, Snek on a Ceiling, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The fun kind of christening, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintina/pseuds/Sintina
Summary: When this house, and your spouse, could really use a fresh coat of paint...(♡Now with beautiful/sexy/messy artwork!♡)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	Christening the Cottage

Aziraphale and Crowley are both in a mood this morning. They are in a home improvement store, perusing the infinite swatches of paint colors, learning about base coats, and putting too many little detail brushes (that they’ll never use) in their cart, all while failing to procure enough rollers or painter’s tape. You never have enough rollers or painter’s tape. However, this little circle of domestic hell is not the cause of their moodiness.

Aziraphale didn’t do his usual all-night reading. Instead, he pored over homemaking magazines, and rather worked himself up with anticipation for a romantic notion. He’s planned an activity to spruce up their new home and make it their own—painting the walls together, the human way, like the couples in all the adverts. And yes, if you must know, Aziraphale also envisioned the fervent consummation of a job well done in their newly personalized home. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

Crowley awoke from bad dreams with an emotional hangover he couldn’t shake. As such, he wants to cancel any plans besides couch snuggles and sunbathing as a snake. And alcohol. Perhaps sowing some seeds of outrage in his new garden. Painting sounds like an awful chore that can wait until tomorrow or next week or just be miracle-ed whenever they bloody feel like it.

Experts at making the best of a bad situation, neither of them realize the obvious disconnect in their desires until they find themselves with a cart full of painting paraphernalia halfway between the green swatches and the blues.

“Is all this really necessary?” Crowley asks when he recognizes that he’s signed himself up for an afternoon- possibly longer- of torture.

“Buck up, darling,” Aziraphale replies,“I believe it’s all quite simple, fun really.”

“Fun?” Crowley grouses. 

“Oh, indeed!” Aziraphale chirps. Crowley makes a face, but Aziraphale presses on. “Warm up our new home together, make it our own?” Aziraphale tries not to give in to disappointment as he watches Crowley’s expression. “Perhaps freshen it up a bit, don’t you think, my dear?”

“Sure, angel, just,” Crowley seems to consider his next words and Aziraphale braces himself. This morning Crowley had certainly seemed amiable, perhaps indifferent, which was the best Aziraphale could usually get when he had a plan for the day that might possibly be interpreted as a ‘chore.’ Crowley gestures to the overflowing cart and asks “Why go to all this trouble?” He picks up three paint brushes in three sizes, puzzling over them. “Could just as easily sit on the couch and think some colors up on the walls, make a game of it, yeah?” He drops the brushes with a clatter. “Like those fairies in Sleeping Beauty changing the princess’s gown from pink to blue, remember? That sounds a bit more fun than all this mucking about.” 

“Well…” Aziraphale’s mind flashes uncontrollably to his imaginings of paint-dappled skin, multi-colored hair, smears of messy hands across a brown-papered floor, rucking up painters’ smocks, and fondling underneath. His cheeks heat and he hopes Crowley doesn’t notice. “I believe mucking about can be fun too. You might just have to trust me on this one, dear boy.” 

Crowley acquiesces, but remains obviously sulky, throughout the rest of the shopping trip. He doesn’t respond to most of Aziraphale’s entreaties about accessories to purchase. The one time Aziraphale notices Crowley liven up is when he spots the demon shuffling up the various paints being prepared in mixers for other customers. Aziraphale lets him enjoy himself and then quietly sets all the desired colors to rights when Crowley disappears into the gardening section. 

They leave the store with more purchases than could possibly fit in the boot of any normal Bentley. Our dear matron of a vehicle adjusts herself before Aziraphale and Crowley have even approached her, sizing up the required haul and adding interdimensional space to contain it all; she’s gotten very responsive to the needs of these two over the last century and prides herself in not ever being part of their numerous petty problems. She soaks up Crowley’s satisfaction as he and his angel clamber into her seats. 

Crowley burns off a little steam flying down the narrow paved thoroughfares amidst the picturesque trees and fields leading from the shopping district to their out-of-the-way little hamlet in the South Downs. When the paved roads degrade to cobbled and graveled lanes, his mood takes another dive.

“This is the only part I hate about living out here, angel,” Crowley grumbles. He can feel the Bentley’s discomfort beneath his feet. She’s doing the car equivalent of lifting her petticoats at every little pothole and divot in the lane. 

Aziraphale nods in sympathy. He’s grown to love this old car and hates for either her or her owner to feel any discomfort in their excursions on the road together. “Would you mind stopping, for just a tick?” He asks and unbuttons the wrists of his shirtsleeves, as if preparing for a magic trick or a bit of heavy lifting. Crowley’s clearly intrigued and slows the Bentley to a halt. 

“What’s this, then, angel?” He’s smiling, because he must know, he must be able to feel it. 

Aziraphale does a bit of angelic manipulation, both hands on the dash, and sends some energy down through the Bentley to the gravel drive beneath her tires. “You’ll see, love, go ahead. Sally forth!” Aziraphale puts on a bit of a show, because he wants to make Crowley feel better. And does it ever work! 

Crowley whoops as the Bentley inches forward on a smooth, paved surface which manifests beneath them as her tires roll, paving the drive as she traverses it. “Well done, angel! Double points for creative execution!” Crowley pumps the gas and speeds forward with enthusiasm, the new pavement keeps up with the Bentley’s progress so that she never touches down on dirt or gravel again. The rest of the short drive home feels every bit as magical and uplifting as a miraculous roadway paving can be. 

Aziraphale loves every kind of Crowley, but the giddy, childish gleeful Crowley is probably his very favorite. 

\-----------------

Alright, that was an exceptionally good stunt. Crowley will give his angel that. He hadn’t recognized he wanted a pick-me-up, but Aziraphale was right there to read his mind and deliver on unspoken needs. What a husband—or partner, or whatever. What an angel! Crowley is sharing his life with an angel and miraculous roadwork is an unexpected perk that he’ll gladly take. Doesn’t make him any more excited for this painting fiasco, but definitely makes him less grouchy about the prospect. 

They start upstairs in Aziraphale’s library. Seems only fair since painting is the angel’s pet project and that’s the room in which he’ll be spending the most time. Aziraphale has already moved a considerable amount of furniture and books into this room. When he snaps them all into a pocket dimension, Crowley gives him the evil eyes. Aziraphale cuts his protest off at the root.

“Not a word, dearest,” he says. And the angel has the gall to hum to himself as he lays out materials on the floor. “I’ve only miracled away the heavy-lifting labors of preparation, you see. I’ve saved us the detailed, artistic, and fun aspects of the job for us.” He’s making _the eyes_ at Crowley. “I was so looking forward to enjoying the hands-on part with you.” And he pats Crowley’s forearm affectionately as he passes, still humming. 

Crowley would have to be a real bellend to complain in the face of all this charm. 

So he sucks it up. He unrolls the brown paper across the floorboards, tapes the crisp ends to the baseboards with painters tape, and generally makes himself useful for the rest of the prep. He leans against the doorframe and scrolls through his phone while Aziraphale adds more painters tape around the windows.

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale makes a noise of mild consternation that draws Crowley’s eyes away from the chaos he’s causing on some niche subreddits.

“What’s up, angel?” 

“That’s just it, actually," Aziraphale looks pointedly at the ceiling. "I didn’t purchase a step-ladder and I haven’t brought any of my old ones down from Soho, yet.” 

Crowley looks up at the crown-molding along the juncture at the top of the wall. “Not feeling like stretching your wings?”

Aziraphale lets out a little huff. “You know full well they’re no use for just a few feet, I’d be hovering, rather than flying. And that’s cheating.” He turns to Crowley, big eyes in full-force. “I don’t suppose you’d consider…” and Aziraphale is appraising Crowley’s arms, shoulders, and chest. There’s a thirst in his eyes Crowley wasn’t expecting; his demonic senses pick up a very mellow whiff of lust. Well then! 

“I’ll give you a boost, angel,” Crowley offers, with a toothy grin. Aziraphale looks excitedly at the floor, clearly expecting Crowley to get down on one knee so that the angel might hop up on his thigh. Crowley is nothing if not a subverter of expectations. He steps behind Aziraphale, grips his hips and hoists him into the air. Aziraphale’s gasp is everything. 

\-------------

“Cr-Crowley! Oh my!” 

Aziraphale isn’t used to feeling weightless, nor being easily manhandled (outside the bedroom, that is, where manhandling him isn’t so easy. He likes to put up a bit of a struggle, make Crowley work for it). His feet dangle at Crowley’s thighs. And Crowley’s fingers squeeze his hips, lifting him so that he can feel his backside must be directly at Crowley’s eye level. There’s this swooping, fluttery sensation all about his limbs as though he had actually manifested his wings and taken flight off a particularly high rooftop. He can’t keep his lips from grinning like a well-fed cat. 

“Not seeing any tape going on up there,” Crowley teases.

“Yes, um.” Aziraphale really must collect himself. This is, after all, exactly what he wanted. But he didn’t think Crowley was picking up what he was putting down, as it were. Well, Crowley’s certainly catching on, it seems. Aziraphale points toward the far corner. “Let’s start over there, shall we?” Aziraphale is _positively twitterpated_ as Crowley takes a few broad steps forward, boots loud on the hard floor, holding Aziraphale aloft by the hips before him, as though Aziraphale is just one of Crowley’s potted trees. Oh, this bodes very well indeed. 

“Watch your head,” Crowley says and suddenly Aziraphale is lifted even higher, so that he does momentarily have to duck his shoulders and bend his neck in order to not bump the ceiling. He is then pulled down and back, Crowley’s head nudging between his legs, and Aziraphale opens up easily to being plopped upon Crowley’s tawny shoulders. Crowley’s hands come to rest atop Aziraphale’s thighs and the demon cranes his head back into Aziraphale’s groin to look up, playful and clearly quite proud of himself. “Thought this might be a bit more comfortable. And my hands are free to lift things up to you, if you need?” Look at the cheeky smile on him! 

Aziraphale swallows down the groan of arousal he feels as Crowley adjusts his rear end and inner thighs more comfortably around that long neck. He must maintain some unaffected airs, or else Crowley won’t continue to dial up his efforts. “Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says as he pats Crowley’s head like a clever dog, carding his fingers once through the messy waves. “This was very thoughtful.” And without another word or inclination of interest, he unspools a long stripe from the roll of tape he’s wearing on one wrist and begins the task at hand.

It takes less time than Aziraphale would like to finish taping off the ceiling this way, with Crowley walking him easily from corner to corner as he rolls the tape cleanly along the edges. All too soon, he realizes it’s time to hop down. Crowley does him the great kindness of lowering himself to one knee, so that Aziraphale can step down from Crowley’s shoulders comfortably without assistance. He feels the loss of Crowley’s presence between his legs intensely and there’s a deep, guttural longing within his core to get Crowley back where he belongs. Aziraphale gives himself a good head-to-toe shake, playing it off, he hopes, as though he’d gotten stiff in that position. Really, he just needs a moment. He doesn’t get it though. Crowley grabs his upper arm and says, entirely too close to Aziraphale’s ear: 

“We forgot the light fixture.”

Aziraphale looks up. It’s in the center of the ceiling and he’d no intention of painting anywhere near it. Before he can mention such details, however, Crowley has placed a hand on the wall and hoisted himself up onto it. Then he demonically spider-walks onto the ceiling until he sits himself down, cross-legged next to the offending little dome. His hair hangs down—or up—away from his face and he is simply the cutest, most endearing vision. Aziraphale exhales a breath of lust and desire and genuine fondness all mussed up together in a confusing jumble of warmth he doesn’t know what to do with. He stares. 

“Well?” Crowley sticks out his hand toward Aziraphale, who realizes just now that Crowley is sitting perfectly at upside-down-kissable height. Aziraphale may melt at the thought. “Hand me the tape, will you, angel?” Aziraphale steps closer and merely lifts his arm up so that the spool of tape slides down a little ways toward his shoulder, but is still easily reachable. Crowley smiles a soft inverted smile. His fingers are rough and sure as he grips Aziraphale’s elbow with one hand and slides—slowly, caressing, scraping a bit on the rough edge—the tape spool up Aziraphale’s forearm and wrist. He makes molten gold eye contact as his fingers glide along the tendons on the back of Aziraphale’s hand until he’s freed the circle of tape. He doesn’t move away yet. Crowley’s other hand scratches with soft nails up from Aziraphale’s elbow to his palm. Finally, he bends Aziraphale’s hand and pulls it forward to kiss, gallantly, but with a lick of tongue, before releasing him. Aziraphale has to take several steps backward, his pubic muscles all clenching at once, his inner thighs ache. He wants. They haven’t opened the first can of paint and he _wants._

Crowley tapes the edges of the light fixture with a serpentine smirk. 

Aziraphale hates how much Crowley _knows_ what’s going on between his legs. Knows how it turns Aziraphale on even more, _because_ Crowley knows. He hates it and never wants it to stop.

\-------------------

Crowley feels so satisfied with himself he doesn’t know what to do next. He looks down at Aziraphale, who’s squirming, pressing his thighs together, and trying to regain control of himself. This is too good. Living together like this, making any boring chore into a day-long tease. Crowley might say he could get used to this. But he doesn’t ever want to get used to this! 

“Anything else I should do while I’m up here?” Crowley asks, giving Aziraphale’s body a once over. The lust wafting off of him would fog up Crowley’s glasses, if he was wearing them. 

“No, thank you, dear. Not just now.” Aziraphale says far too easily. Crowley considers turning into a snake and hanging down from the ceiling to wrap a strong coil or two around Aziraphale. Keep him where he wants him. 

“We must change first,” Aziraphale announces. “I hope you had some painting clothes in mind. You don’t want to ruin your expensive shabby chic look.” With that, Aziraphale turns and walks out of the room, leaving Crowley sitting on the ceiling. He stands and walks down the wall in order to follow Aziraphale to their bedroom. 

“Of course I’ve got gardening rags that’ll serve,” he grumbles before he opens the door. He’s frustrated to find Aziraphale not in the bedroom, but apparently gone all modest and changing in the en suite. “Really if the paint stays on the wall, _where it belongs,_ there’s no point bothering with what to wear.” 

“We’re first-timers,” Aziraphale calls from behind the door, “we’re sure to make some mistakes. Better safe than sorry.” 

“Could just paint naked.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Because?”

“Far too distracting.” 

“Whatever you say.” Crowley snaps himself into some ratty old gardening kit. The bathroom door creaks to reveal Aziraphale in an unaccountable outfit.

The angel is wearing baggy house trousers that look like pajama bottoms, tartan of course, a tee shirt—a tee shirt!—that fits him snuggly across his bulky shoulders and the breadth of his chest. The thing that really does it is the smock. It’s a dingy, old, vanilla-ivory colored number that seems dusty with storage and stiff with prior uses. Crowley can’t smell it, _yet,_ but imagines it must be foul. 

“What in heaven is that old thing?”

“My smock!” Aziraphale announces proudly. Holding the bottom edges, one in each hand, he stretches the apron away from his thighs to do a sort of curtsy, bending one knee. Crowley may discorporate. “Isn’t it splendid? Quite comfortable, really. And it has these nice large pockets,” he stuffs both hands into them, nearly up the elbow, showing off their depth, very pleased with himself. Crowley isn’t ready for the cocktail of chemicals that assaults his bloodstream. This is too cute. Too sexy. Too positively Aziraphale. 

“You… that’s… bloody ridiculous. Where did you get that?” 

“I bought it for myself when I opened the bookshop. That was the first time I did any sort of painting and dusting and tidying up the human way. Thought I best look the part.” Aziraphale smiles, taken with the memory of his younger self, no doubt. “I used to carry books about in these pockets, you see. Only I kept forgetting I’d put them in there and I’d spend a whole blasted afternoon searching for them only to find them hanging in the pockets of the smock on the coat rack for who knows how long?” 

“I love you,” Crowley says. 

Because what else do you say to this nonsense when it warms up your whole body? Aziraphale has the good sense not to respond and rather to let himself be tugged in for a soft, unhurried kiss. 

“I love you too,” Aziraphale sighs when they part. “Shall we get to painting, then?”

“If we must.” Crowley follows Aziraphale back to the study, watches unhelpfully as Aziraphale opens and stirs the new cans of paint. “We’ll be rubbish at this,” Crowley declares as Aziraphale pours too much into the first roller tray and a steady stream overflows and pools below the tray on the brown paper. 

“Come now,” Aziraphale tuts. “We can manage. We’ve certainly watched our fair share of classical painters over the centuries, haven’t we?”

“All of whom would’ve hired someone else to do a job like this.” Crowley gestures at the offending walls. “Would’ve been a waste of their valuable creative time, adding a single color to a bunch of flat surfaces.”

“Now, now,” Aziraphale tsks, as he cleans up the paint spill. “I’m certain some of their brilliance must have rubbed off on us.”

“Well,” Crowley mouths, watching Aziraphale and waiting for the exact moment the angel realizes he’d spoken a double entendre. “Leo did like rubbing off…”

“Be civil!” Aziraphale swats his paint-soaked rag at Crowley’s general self. There’s an arc of droplets through the air. Aziraphale watches in frustration as not one of them lands on Crowley. He makes sure they all know better, for next time. 

Crowley’s smile goes wickedly serpentine. “Didn’t like me _fraternizing_ with renaissance painters, did you?”

“I am only sorry I ever introduced the word ‘fraternizing’ into our conversation.”

“Mmph. No sorrier than I am, I assure you.”

“Here goes!” Aziraphale lifts his roller and applies a long, thoughtful swipe. The sapphire blue paint, dark and shining like a twilight sky, makes a satisfyingly sticky sound as its wide stripe appears before them in the middle of the old, off-white wall. Aziraphale takes a step back to admire his work. He hums contentedly. 

“Dripping, there.” Crowley points out. A few drips trail down from the top and bottom corners of the wide blue stripe. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Aziraphale smiles and takes another roll at the wall, trying to sop up some of the drips, which creates a smudge effect at the bottom of his next stripe. “Well, I had thought that would fix it. Mmph.” Aziraphale looks at the two stripes he’s painted as though they’ve personally offended him. Sure enough, they feel ashamed and right themselves into two neat, perfectly overlapping, smooth rolls of seamless sapphire blue. Bastard. Crowley can’t even be mad at him for being so undeniable even a coat of paint would rather defy physics than see him pout.

\------------------

Aziraphale waits for the scoff. He expects a scoff or a snort from behind him. He hadn’t actually miracled any changes to the wall. He wasn’t cheating! It’s not his fault the paint felt remorse for laying poorly and decided not to disappoint him. He doesn’t want to have to explain it to Crowley. Especially when Crowley should know, must know. Crowley won’t have felt any angelic miraculous energy. Still, he waits. And Crowley makes no sound, doesn’t make fun of him in any way. Finally Aziraphale can’t take it anymore and turns around to face Crowley. 

And gets a dollop of sapphire blue on the end of his nose, courtesy of Crowley’s index finger, dipped in paint, apparently. 

Crowley grins and continues not to say a word. His eyes are playing a dozen childish games at once, daring Aziraphale to come join the fun. 

Aziraphale wiggles and scrunches his nose. The paint is drying rapidly, feeling tacky. First paint, like first blood in fencing, is oddly satisfying. After all, none of his fantasies from last night could possibly come true if someone didn’t start playing with the paint. The surest way to spur Crowley on is to ignore his first jab. Aziraphale quietly arches a brow at Crowley’s mischievous face and then bends to the task of gliding his roller through the tray to wet it with a fresh coat. He can practically hear Crowley’s frustration behind him at not being scolded or shooed.

Crowley finally appears to decide that silent dissent is the order of the hour and takes up a roller. He uses it in the most preposterous way Aziraphale can think of- he paints an enormous ‘W’ on the adjacent wall and begins to roll in diagonal directions along the lines. Clearly a ploy to distract and perturb Aziraphale. He ignores every instinct in his brain, all clamoring at once to ask what the ‘w’ stands for. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate will not be moved! Aziraphale continues his (admittedly rather runny) paint job of the first wall, undeterred. The quiet, mutual painting goes rather smoothly for a few minutes. 

As they approach their adjoining corner, the attrition of silent treatment escalates into unspoken, jabs of paint brushes, subtle flicks of bristles, until they each have several dapples of sapphire blue on their clothes or skin. 

Aziraphale breaks first. “Really, now!” he exclaims when, with pinpoint accuracy, Crowley swipes a vertical line over one of Aziraphale’s nipples. He doesn’t understand how he can feel the paint titillating him through both the heavy smock and his tee shirt, but perhaps Crowley’s teases are possessed of their own demonic metaphysics. Crowley eyes his handiwork appraisingly. 

“Perhaps you should consider a bolt, angel,” he says as he flicks his brush at the other nipple and just misses when Aziraphale dodges. “Would look good on you.” 

“I am not piercing my-!” Aziraphale gasps and covers his breasts with his palms. Only to get a sapphire blue stigmata in the center of each hand at which Crowley points and laughs.

“How positively holy of you,” he chortles. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Aziraphale snips. He is torn. He’s trying not to laugh, trying not to give Crowley the upper hand in this extended foreplay scheme, and also actually trying to get some painting done. His conflicting priorities are quite a bother. “You foul fiend,” he chastises, finally opting for the usual schtick because it’s been so effective for so long. “I’d like to make progress on our project, if you please.” He takes up a detail brush and dips it in the light gray for the trim. But before he applies the paint he turns to lay in a final verbal swipe. “I can well imagine what you’d rather be doing!” 

Crowley is too fast for him. 

“Clever are you?” Crowley swats his small brush with a _splat_ squarely upon one of Aziraphale’s ass cheeks, leaving a large smudge of gray behind. “What’s that you’re ‘well imagining,’ hmm?”

“I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said.” Aziraphale keeps aiming his tone for prim, but hitting tart. He’s not sure he cares. His buttocks sing to be swatted again. Or squeezed. He misses strokes on the trim and it’s a streaky mess. 

Crowley steps back and admires his—alright, very well done—job of his wall and his trim. “If you ask me, angel, I’m not the one neglecting my painter’s duties.” Aziraphale only hums in response and tries to stay focused. Crowley begins his second wall with another great ‘w’ as Aziraphale hastens to finish his first. 

\------------

This is a riot. Crowley never thought he’d love watching paint dry. But the flaps at the back of the angel's smock open just right, like the parting of a curtain, when Aziraphale bends over. And the gray smear on Aziraphale’s rear-end drips and slowly dries in a long, tantalizing path down over the rump and into the crease of Aziraphale’s tight joggers as he squats working on his trim. Crowley fights the urge to dip his palm in the paint, pull down those trousers, and squeeze a firm handprint across that gorgeous arse. He’d blow on it until it dries and then have the angel pull the joggers back up and just wear that claiming paint stain under his clothes for the rest of the day as he finishes his little chore. Crowley’s salivating and his groin keeps flexing. Not yet. For now he watches, leaned in the doorway, finished with his second wall and trim, as Aziraphale struggles to keep up with Crowley’s prowess as a painter. 

Aziraphale is hunched low to the floor near Crowley’s feet when Crowley recalls the oldest trick in the art of paint-fighting. He runs his thumb along the top of his brush’s bristles, gathering them in a clumpy bunch to one side, then flicks his wrist to release a volley of droplets all over Aziraphale’s shoulder, neck, and cheek. 

Aziraphale looks up, sucking in one cheek until he causes a dimple. There’s a spot of paint just there which almost fits the divot perfectly. 

Somehow, the speckled angel looks far cuter than Crowley had expected and he’s momentarily disarmed by the adorableness. Aziraphale uses that moment to retaliate, dancing a fine detail brush in a calligraphic swirl up Crowley’s pant leg from his ankle to his lower thigh.

“Isn’t that lovely?” Aziraphale asks. From his angle, he’s close enough to Crowley’s crotch to dab a spot of gray right over his fly. 

“ _Angel,_ ” Crowley warns. 

“Something the matter, dear?” Aziraphale stands up, close, in his space. 

“Not as such,” Crowley muses, “You were right about what I’d rather be doing.” Crowley leans in. “M’looking forward to giving this cottage a proper christening.” Crowley wags his eyebrows in a way Aziraphale doesn’t appear to understand given the context. Something in Aziraphale’s face goes from teasing to concerned. 

“No, Crowley! We couldn’t possibly!” Aziraphale gasps, suddenly terrified.

“Come on, angel, just a bit of fun…”

“Absolutely not!” He drops his paintbrush in the bucket with too much force. “While I appreciate the thought, my dear, very generous of you to consider I might want something like that, of course,” he tugs at the braces of his smock. “But it’s out of the question.”

Crowley raises his hands in defeat, ready to accept a more traditional first-time in their cozy bedroom. That newly minted bed of theirs is just the right balance between their aesthetics and comforts. It will probably serve just fine. Then Aziraphale keeps talking.

“We couldn’t possibly christen the cottage! You might not be able to touch anything inside after it’s been properly blessed.”

“Angel,” Crowley deadpans.

“The answer is no.” 

“Not the kind of christening I’m talking about.”

“Oh?”

“Perhaps I should introduce you to Urban Dictionary sometime, angel.”

“I do enjoy a new edition of the dictionary!” Aziraphale brightens. “Who publishes this version, do you know? I might be able to find it through my own channels.”

“Afraid it’s all online.”

“Ah, one of _those,_ ” Aziraphale grumbles, rolling his eyes with that judgmental purse of his lips. “Well, what’s this new definition of the word 'christening,' then?” 

“Means sex for the first time in a new place,” Crowley says, looking Aziraphale right in his big, beautiful eyes. “Or a new car, new bed, sex for the first time on the new couch, even.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale doesn’t seem offended—at all—by this proposition. Crowley knew he’d been sensing a heady bouquet of arousal all day. 

“We should, you know,” Crowley suggests, casual as you please, “Take a break. Work that out. You said you wanted to make the house ours.” 

Aziraphale swallows and wets his lips. Crowley has found him out. That’s what this stalling means. Aziraphale must’ve planned this whole painting stunt as some sort of sex fantasy. Why hadn’t he just said? Well, Crowley would make him suffer a bit more. He slides close, taking Aziraphale’s brush and dropping it in the tray. 

Aziraphale lifts his chin, defiant. Against what, hell only knows. He likes to play these games of resistance and giving in, always has. Crowley waits. He steps one foot between Aziraphale’s. His knee bracketed by the angel’s, which apparently helps Aziraphale find his voice. 

“We’ve already begun here,” the angel reasons, and steps back. “We shouldn’t really christen anything until it’s all properly painted.” 

“Right. Be silly to see the queen out there christening some dull boat, then after she’s smashed the bubbly, packed up and gone on,” Crowley considers, “they give the hull a fresh coat of paint.” Crowley lets Aziraphale retreat, gives him space.

“I... I thought we weren’t talking about that kind of christening…” 

“Same difference, really. Though I’d rather not picture the British royalty shagging on those royal navy ships…” 

“Quite.” 

\---------------------

Aziraphale assesses the walls and trim they’ve completed in his library. He’ll never admit that he thinks Crowley’s look much better than his own. He realizes he’ll probably always recall their flirtations when he’s trying to occupy himself in here with a good book on a quiet afternoon. His cheeks heat. “Shall we take this downstairs, darling? Perhaps prep the lower rooms? And I’d relish a cuppa.”

“Fortifying yourself against my wiles with distance and distraction,” Crowley states, flatly, as he ducks out the door. 

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale follows. 

“Classic, really.” Crowley shrugs without turning around. “Sure. I could do tea.” And with that Crowley leads them down the stairs. Aziraphale apraises the living room and foyer, which haven’t yet been filled with boxes or furniture the way the library had. It’ll be a cleaner slate from which to start. The paint is drying in his hair and on his skin. He feels hot under the collar, still, but a pause in the festivities is fine, perhaps even tantalizing in its way. 

Fortified by a warm, soothing beverage, Aziraphale papers the floors and applies tape while Crowley silently observes and holds a teacup he doesn’t drink, occasionally peppering the angel with advice or criticism. Crowley then proceeds, once cans of red and gold paint are opened, to periodically paint little, golden stars all over the bare walls Aziraphale hasn’t started on yet. 

“Crowley, you are officially _not helping._ ”

“Disagree. Think I’m helping plenty,” he leers. “With your _true_ objective for today anyway.” Crowley dabbles his brush in a star pattern on Aziraphale’s bare bicep. The tee shirt sleeve has ridden up, the paint is cold, the strokes are feather soft, and a chill of gooseflesh stipples up Aziraphale’s arm to his neck.

Aziraphale has Had Enough and takes his roller firmly in hand. Crowley might believe he’s about to be shooed in a flurry of paint splats, but what Aziraphale does instead is roll a long red swath up from  
Crowley’s navel to his clavicle. The slow, deliberate, messy marking stirs something in Aziraphale he didn’t even know was part of his lust equation. 

He turns away to try and deal with _all that._

“Come’re,” Crowley growls.

Crowley reaches around Aziraphale’s midsection from behind and pulls him close, both hands gliding seamlessly beneath the front of that crusty old smock. One moves north, the other south. His palms cup Aziraphale’s opposing shoulder and hip and Crowley clenches, constricting Aziraphale's entire body in one brief squeeze, then proceeds to grind against his rear. The red paint on Crowley's front squishes onto Aziraphale’s back like jelly trying to escape two slices of bread. Aziraphale feels the cool wetness of it between them as his shirt becomes saturated by Crowley’s undulations, smearing the color in harder. 

Aziraphale strains in Crowley’s hold, he arches his back away from the soppy goo between them, which brings his neck into Crowley’s lips. Not on purpose at all, of course! Crowley licks a long, thick line from the juncture of his shoulder to the lobe of his ear, where he takes his time to nibble and suck and make Aziraphale moan. Aziraphale’s squirming intensifies and Crowley encourages it with more rapid, little hip gyrations. 

One of Aziraphale’s hands burrows its way between them, fondles Crowley’s arousal. 

“Let me make you come, darling, won’t you?” Aziraphale is breathless already, but Crowley seems far too composed. “So we—achem—so we can get back to work, perhaps?” Crowley answers by sucking a perfect little circle into his skin and Aziraphale whines. 

“Oh?" Crowley's lips leave their mark with a pop. "Why would I possibly want to come _now_ when I could do this... and this,” he murmurs as he licks and bites along the back of Aziraphale’s neck, “for hours, and hours? Days, even! Weeks!” He clamps down with his lips, no teeth, and sucks on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He then extracts his hands from Aziraphale’s smock, twists the angel just enough so that he can smother his mouth in a kiss that devours and takes. 

“Please, no,” Aziraphale gasps on the edge of reason, “please don’t. Please.”

“What is it, angel? What do you want?”

“Not that. Not days. Now…please.”

“You like the long game,” Crowley teases with a lick, his hand cupping Aziraphale’s bulge. “You’re full to bursting for me.” Crowley takes the next protest out of Aziraphale’s mouth with his tongue, which elongates and forks, licking into the hollows of Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale moans low and heavy from his chest. 

Suddenly, he’s spun around so that he faces away from Crowley again, and Crowley pushes him forward, toward the clean, triangular wall along the staircase. 

\---------------

This is it, no more foreplay. Crowley’s too worked up. 

“Turnabout’s fair play, angel,” he says and flips up the tent flaps of that ridiculous painter’s smock and tugs down Aziraphale’s tartan house trousers.

“You’re not funny,” Aziraphale gripes, even as he bends forward, ass higher and more inviting, gripping the balusters of the stairwell in both hands like the bars of a cage—oh, Crowley likes that very much. Crowley gives him a soft smack, splaying his fingers across Aziraphale’s cheeks, claws poking into their plushness.

“Who’s being funny?” Crowley digs his thumbs into Aziraphale’s crease, pulling him open. “I’m thanking you for paving that lane for me and the Bentley.”

Crowley doesn’t say another word. He’s thick and hard as hell and throbbing for it and he finds Aziraphale is prepped, spongy, and hot when Crowley sinks in. He’s perfect. Crowley drives into Aziraphale, feels the rush of their connection, somehow never any less intense than the first time. Crowley feels awash in love and lust from his toes to his ears and his body answers in snapping, demanding, needy thrusts. His angel’s body meeting him, matching him, craving as much as he can give. 

Aziraphale says something encouraging about not stopping. And his noises say more, more, more when words won’t do. Crowley takes some steps forward, crowding them both up to the side of the stairwell. Impossibly closer and deeper and he rolls his hips into the tightness of the space between them, skin and skin, more touch. More. With the pinpoint hyper-focus of sex, Crowley notices Aziraphale’s grasping hands have left blue and gray rings on the balusters. Crowley braces himself on the low wall. He can feel his palm leaving a fierce and heavy red handprint as he thrusts. They find their way to the floor, Aziraphale face up now with his legs wrapped around Crowley’s hips and the brown paper beneath them crinkling, folding, and tearing in their passion. 

Crowley makes a point of involving the paint as much as possible. He kicks a bucket over, sits in the paint while Aziraphale rides him. Later, he presses his own ass onto one of the bare walls as Aziraphale kneels for him. Aziraphale sucks him off with so much fiendish glee Crowley would swear the angel had been corrupted with too much demon seed over these years of their own side. He shoves Aziraphale, naked and streaked with every color of paint they’d purchased (and a few Crowley conjured up just to see the hues on his pale skin), into every flat surface they can manage. He definitely dares Aziraphale to dip his balls in gold and sit in one of the dining table chairs, so Crowley can return the fellatio. Aziraphale, dazed and sex drunk, chortles with Crowley at the imprint he leaves on the seat. They kiss and laugh and continue to christen their new home in wondrous ways. 

A rainbow collage of sexy memories appears throughout the cottage as they progress from room to room. Mussy-hair prints, smears of bodies up and down walls, the ceiling is marked more than once.

“How did a footprint get up there?” Aziraphale laughs as he lays tucked into Crowley’s side on the floor of the kitchen. Sure enough, there’s a golden footprint next to a light fixture. 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s curls. “Not sure. Looks good, though. Should keep it.” 

“How would we ever explain that to visitors?”

“Tell them the cottage came with it and we didn’t ask questions?” 

Aziraphale chuckles. He decides they should survey the results of their escapades. Hand in hand, they stroll the rooms, as though taking in an exhibition at a museum. The cottage feels like home, like theirs. Aziraphale blushes repeatedly. Crowley pretends he doesn’t get flustered and embarrassed, but definitely groans and covers his eyes with his forearm when he sees his own cock print, proud and defiantly stamped upon their bedroom door three times in black, red, and gold. 

“You’re ridiculous, darling,” Aziraphale snickers and squeezes his hand. “You’ve certainly claimed the boudoir. I don’t think we could ever say _these_ came with the place.” He runs his fingers lovingly over the dick-prints, careful not to smear them.

Crowley grumbles and tries not to smile too broadly as they make their way back into the library, which was left relatively unscathed by their debauchery. Sapphire walls shining, though the paper floor has some sex streaks. “Guess we’ll have to miracle all the rest of the walls to look as good as these.” Crowley kicks at the crinkly paper. “Sorry about that.” 

“Oh, I’m not!” Aziraphale kisses Crowley cheek. “This was exactly what I wanted, dearest. Thank you.” They head back downstairs and Aziraphale considers the stains of their lovemaking. “We can miracle the walls. But, Crowley,” Aziraphale lays a hand on the small of his back. “I want to always know those stains were there.”

Crowley smirks and snaps his fingers. 

Beneath the immaculate paint job which covers the evidence, the memories will heat Aziraphale’s cheeks every time he glances under the veil of Crowley's miracle.

**Author's Note:**

> So much messy sexy painting [ Art!](https://twitter.com/Free00746552/status/1355689851157360640?s=20) and [ More art!!](https://twitter.com/Free00746552/status/1352401472730882054?s=20)
> 
> Follow this beautiful artist [ @Free00746552](https://twitter.com/Free00746552) or [ on Insta](https://www.instagram.com/freedomattack_thereal/) because they were a joy to work with. 
> 
> I'm [ @Sintinas](https://twitter.com/Sintinas) on the Twitter. It's a super self-indulgent TL of GO retweets atm.


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